


Beginnings: Chief

by WildClover27 (PrairieFlower)



Category: Garrison's Gorillas
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 13:34:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12322077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrairieFlower/pseuds/WildClover27
Summary: Chief's arrival at the Mansion. His impressions of Garrison and the others, and their impressions of him.





	Beginnings: Chief

Garrison stood on the third step from the bottom of the stone steps leading up to the front door of the Mansion, hands clasp behind his back. The door to the prison van opened and still Garrison waited. The prisoner almost fell out in the process of jerking away from the inside MP. He wobbled, taking a tiny step forward with his ankles shackled, but managed to stay upright.

The Lieutenant came down the rest of the way to the car park and walked up to the young man. Obsidian eyes glared at him from a face full of bruises, abrasions and swelling. He had obviously been in a fight. The abrasions were not fresh, so the damage had been done in the States.

“You need a doctor?” asked Garrison matter-of-factly.

“I don’t need nuthin’,” snarled the Indian. 

The sergeant with the paperwork held the clipboard out to the officer and spoke. “He was seen by the base doctor in New York, Lieutenant. He was cleared. He’s got what you see, Sir, and a cracked rib and more bruises.”

Terrific thought Garrison, signing the papers. Now he had to let this one recover before he could train him in the strenuous activities. A postponing of the mission. He handed the clipboard back to the sergeant and held his hand out for his copy after the man signed it.

“Take the cuffs off,” ordered Garrison.

“Are you sure, Sir?” asked the MP who had been in the back with the prisoner. His eyes darted between Garrison and the convict.

“I gave you an order, Corporal” said Garrison steely. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

The corporal immediately unlocked and removed the cuffs and shackles. The young man ignored the guard and stepped away, resisting the urge to rub his chaffed wrists.

“Come with me, Mr. Sands,” instructed Garrison.

He turned his back and started up the steps, confident the Indian had no choice but to follow. He was right.

“Don’t go by ‘Mister Sands’,” said the man from behind Garrison’s left elbow, derision in his voice.

“What do they call you then?” asked the Lieutenant.

“Chief,” replied the Indian. “I’m called Chief. Not Mister Sands, an’ not Rainey.”

Chief could be taken as a derogatory nickname. Garrison knew all about the Anglo outlook of inferiority for the American Indian. However, that wasn’t a story for this young man’s ears.

“Okay, Chief,” said Garrison.

They entered the building and Chief thought the inside looked like something from a movie set: Dark carved wood paneling, fancy stairs, and equally dark and somber paintings of people who were probably long dead. The exception was the four men occupying the room were real.

“This is Chief,” said Garrison in introduction.

“Goniff.” The slight blond man looked up with a grin. Chief ignored him.

“Casino.”

“’Bout time you showed up,” said the dark-haired man with irritation. Chief ignored him too.

“Wheeler,” said Garrison.

“Chief, huh? Chief uh what? Looks like you got the crap beat outta you. Another pretty boy.”

The cold obsidian eyes fixed on the bald, thick-bodied man. He seemed to be the trouble maker of the group. More so than Casino. It might pay to watch Wheeler. He was probably the one who could start something and get them all free. And Chief had no intentions of stayin’ with this group. They spoke English in England. He could make his way just fine here.

“Your quarters are upstairs.”

Chief followed the Lieutenant up to the second floor. There were military screws all over the place. Double doors on one arm of the T shaped hallway opened into another large room, set up somewhat like the one downstairs.

“Your area is over there,” said Garrison, pointing to the near right corner.

No window again, thought the Indian, but he was able to see across the room to the windows, so there was blue sky and one big tree to look at. He could manage.

“Get settled, then come down to my office,” instructed Garrison.

Chief waited until the guard closed the door behind Garrison before moving over to the cot in the corner. The handcuff dangling from the frame drew another sneer from him. They got cuffed at night? He couldn’t wait to get out of here. Another guard brought up his bag of meager belongings and set them down in the middle of the floor before leaving. The inside guard said nothing and Chief was not of a mind to talk to him either. 

Chief walked back and carelessly picked up the bag. He had seen a foot locker at one end of the cot. He pulled open the lid and dropped his bag in on top of the one that was inside. He really didn’t care what was in the bag. Slapping at the lid of the footlocker dropped it down with a satisfying bang. 

Still ignoring the guard, the young man ambled around the room. The first thing to catch his attention was the dart board hanging from the slightly protruding bit of wall between the two windows. He walked over to it and opened the little drawer below it. There was a full set of darts inside. He guessed the officer must trust them with some sharp objects. Well, he knew how to turn that into a somewhat suitable weapon.  
Like the others, he opened a window and looked out between the bars. It was green out there. Too green. Worse than New York green. He had grown up in the dry scrub hills and deserts of southern Arizona and New Mexico. Must rain a lot here.

Chief slowly made a tour of the other cots in the room. One was extremely neat. Two were made up but not as precisely. The one closest to his was plain messy. Just from the quick read of the men downstairs, he guessed the messy cot belonged to Wheeler and the neat one belonged to Actor. They fit the men’s looks and what little he had seen of their personalities. 

Rapidly running out of things to see, Chief walked up to the guard and looked at him silently. The guard eyed him back a second before stepping back to allow the convict to exit.

Garrison pulled the last folder from his bottom left desk drawer. He kept the bottom drawers locked. The one held dossiers and files that needed to be kept from prying eyes. The right bottom drawer held his bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses. He was particular about who he shared his liquor with.

Laying the file open on his desk, he picked up the papers and read them yet again. He wasn’t sure why he had picked this young man. Casino could hot wire a car in a heartbeat and any of them could be taught to drive a getaway vehicle. Something in his gut had told him to take Rainey Sands anyway. And usually Craig could trust his gut instincts.

Actor had been a given. The man was the best in the business, but that designation also made him the most likely to disappear in the middle of the mission. He could make himself invisible anywhere, despite his height and good looks. Face it, the Continent was the man’s playground. Keeping him with the group was going to take some doing.

There was not supposed to be a safe Casino couldn’t break into. That made him the obvious choice for Garrison’s safecracker. The man had masterminded bank jobs all over the Midwest and East Coast. He also knew alarm systems and security. There had been a mention of his ability to blow things up. Demolitions could be helpful.

Goniff was one of the best cat burglars in the States and England. His talents had been handed down through his family. He could pick any pocket and nobody was the wiser from the encounter. He also had nothing in the line of scruples. He knew how to circumvent some security systems. Garrison had been told the slight man could scale any wall like a monkey up a tree. His annoying habits were his incessant chatter and his fidgeting. That could be overlooked if he could do his job.

Wheeler was the wild card. Garrison had not wanted the man, had no intention of even interviewing the man, but he had wanted Actor badly enough to agree to the strange demand of taking both men from Alcatraz. Maybe the powers that be were hoping Wheeler would disappear an ocean away from the States or get himself killed. Either way, Garrison was annoyed he had been saddled with the blowhard.

Scanning the papers in his hand, the Lieutenant followed the trail of Chief’s short life. Born on a reservation with a mother, but no father listed, he had spent short periods of time in various Indian schools. As soon as he could, he escaped from them. Garrison had second hand knowledge of what those schools were like and really could not fault the boy for that. Self-taught, his best friend was a switchblade. There had been multiple fights and some stabbings. Hotwiring cars and petty stealing were his main crimes. Until one day a cop had been stabbed and died. The courts found the boy guilty of first degree murder. From there he had been in and out of prisons, mostly east of the Mississippi River. There were reports of multiple prison break attempts, some quite creative, but he had never made it out of prison itself. He had managed an escape during transportation from one facility to another. This had brought him to New York. There he had hired himself out to steal and drive getaway cars for anyone who would take him. It was a robbery gone wrong that landed him in Attica for a ten-year stretch. His appointed attorney had noted there was something not right about the business, but a jury had unanimously found him guilty anyway. Garrison wouldn’t be surprised it had something to do with the darker shade of the young man’s skin.

Craig watched Chief casually amble into this office and take the seat across the desk from him. Despite the unconcerned demeanor, the eyes looking back at Garrison were still cold and alert. This young man didn’t trust anyone easily.

“I want my blade.” It was spoken softly by firmly. 

Garrison paused a moment, giving himself time to think and making Chief wait for an answer; keeping the Lieutenant with the upper hand. He had been told the boy was abnormally fond of his switchblade. He would have to provide one soon anyway and Chief probably needed practice. Craig pushed a piece of onionskin typing paper and a pencil across the clean wooden top of the desk. 

“Write down the specifications and we’ll see what OSS can come up with.”

Chief made no move to touch the pencil or the paper. Garrison had been told the young man was ‘slow.’ During the interview, when Chief did talk, Garrison had not found him in the least bit ‘slow.’ Possibly he was illiterate. Casually, Craig pulled the pencil and paper back.

“Length of blade?”

As he asked the questions, he received a more animated and detailed response. Chief knew his knives; six-inch blade of Toledo or Milano steel, perfect balance, black handle so it didn’t show in the dark, a whetstone and oil. Unbidden, Garrison was told Chief needed boots with a sheath. Oh, and several shivs, in case he couldn’t get one back after he used it. He carried two on him at all times. 

That didn’t seem to surprise Garrison and that surprised Chief, not that he showed it. The Indian had to admit, he was curious about the Lieutenant. During the interview at Attica, the officer had been cool and seemed to have a wry sense of humor about the questions he had asked. Chief had been offered a cigarette. He really didn’t like tobacco, but he hadn’t had a cigarette in a long time, so he had accepted it. It was having something hanging from his lips that calmed him; cigarette, match, weed stem, paper clip, anything handy at the time. 

The officer had started speaking again. This time he was telling Chief what was expected of him and what he could expect. No surprises there. Chief nodded and waited to see what would come next. Garrison dismissed him to join the others until supper. Terrific. With an uncaring air, he got up and strolled out the door. 

There was a large wing-backed chair in the corner by the window that was unoccupied. The window had a wide stone sill and that was what Chief went to. Hiking a hip and foot up on the ledge, he seemed to ignore the men in the room, though he was aware they had all watched him when he came out of Garrison’s office.

Eyes scanned the area he could see from the window. No tall cyclone fences down by the road which was a good long way from the house for a man on foot, and it was in the open, except for some pastures that were outlined with whitewashed wooden slat fences. There were armed guards by the woods, in the car park where Chief had come in, and patrolling the perimeter of the building from the looks of it.

“Don’t do no good to think about it, Mate.”

Chief turned his eyes to the slight blond man with the British accent who was seated at the round table in the middle of the room, playing cards.

“No fences,” said the dark-haired man across the table with his back to Chief. “Too many guards. We already checked it out.

“Aww wadda you know,” scoffed the bald, chunky man who was at a little table not far from Chief’s feet.

Casino snorted. “Yeah, Wheeler? An’ how many prisons did you break out of?” When there was no reply, he added, “I’ve broken outta two so far.”

“Well how about I break you?” shot back the ugly man.

“Wheeler, settle down, please,” said the tall European man in the far chair, never looking up from his book.

“Wanna make me?” invited Wheeler.

“No he doesn’t and knock it off, Wheeler,” The stern voice came from the office.

“Just playin’ around, Soldier Boy.”

Chief went back to watching out the window. He didn’t need to see the men to come to conclusions about them. Wheeler was like a lot of men, inmates and screws, he had met in various prisons. All talk, but afraid of the men in charge. Casino was tough, but not as much of a trouble maker as Wheeler would be. Still, he was one to watch too. Chief did not know what their specialties were, but he’d find out soon enough. The smaller, blond one with the English accent was a nervous type, trying to be friendly. Chief didn’t need that either. He just wanted to be left alone. The tall dark-haired lightly olive-skinned man with the book seemed a combination of arrogance and aristocracy. Probably a confidence man. Garrison had told him the team would be made up of men with different specialties.

Wishing he had his blade, Chief continued to gaze out the window until they went to dinner. He followed the others into the dining room. The only seat left at the table was by the wall with Wheeler next to it on the right and Actor at the end. Great. Chief pulled out the chair and sat down. Place looked to be full of antiques. He wondered what kind of food they would get fed.

As if conjured up by that thought, plates of food were brought in and placed in front of each man. Spam? He knew what it was and didn’t particularly like it. Still it was food and he hadn’t had anything since breakfast. Scooping up a spoonful of beans first, he took a bit. The bruised jaw had stiffened up and was uncomfortable when he chewed. It couldn’t be seen from his expression. It was the age-old unwritten prison rule, never let them see you afraid, or hurt.

Not for the last time, Garrison kept an unobtrusive eye on the newest and fifth member of his team. How they reacted to their first meal and with each other gave him a little insight into their individual personalities.

Chief had taken his seat between Wheeler and Actor. He was back to his reticent self. The young man had eyed the meat before wordlessly picking up his fork and taken a bite of beans. His concentration seemed to be on his food and not the others around him. Garrison had a feeling the man knew exactly what was happening around him.

“So what are yuh used to eating, Geronimo?” asked Casino, tauntingly from across the table.

“Name’s Chief, not Geronimo.” It was spoken quietly.

“Yeah, right . . . Chief. So what are you used to eating?”

“I would assume the kind of food the rest of us are,” remarked Actor. The con man received a glare from the Indian for his ‘interference.’

“Rattlesnake.”

Wheeler let out a loud guffaw. “What? Your people didn’t have money for food?” Chief ignored him, cutting a bite of Spam with tension that said he would rather been sticking the knife into the jerk next to him and the one across the table.

“Does it really taste like chicken, Mate?” asked Goniff, trying to keep the conversation from turning into a fight.

“Some.”

Actor nodded. “I have had the opportunity to eat many rare delicacies in my life, but I am not sure I would like to try snake.”

“It’s not bad,” said Garrison. “A little bony.”

Five pair of eyes swung toward him.

“You ate snake, Warden?” asked Goniff.

Craig nodded. “You learn to live off the land when you need to.”

“So wad else did you eat?” Wheeler threw at Chief.

“Lizard,” added Chief, playing with the jerk.

“How do you cook that?” asked Wheeler. “Or do yuh eat it raw?” His tone of voice clearly said he was making fun of the younger man.

“Yuh shove a stick through its mouth and out it’s back end and cook it over a fire.”

“Wot’s that taste like?” asked Goniff brightly.

“Lizard.” Man, these guys were stupid.

Casino stabbed at a piece of the fat meat on his plate. “Gotta be better’n Spam. Skunk would be better’n Spam.”

“No it ain”t. Skunk stinks.”

Garrison managed to keep a straight face, but almost lost it looking across the table at the confidence man who flashed an expression of disgust at him before turning his attention back to his plate.

This was probably the most conversation, if you could call it that, which had occurred between the Indian and the rest of the cons. And it was the last for this meal. Chief had nothing more to say and did not join in what little conversation there was.

Chief staked his claim on the window in the corner of the common room, remaining there until the blackout drapes were closed. Unable to look outside and let his thoughts wander where they would, the Indian wished for his blade. He needed something in his hands and the repetition of cleaning and oiling his blades was soothing to him. A wooden matchstick rolled lazily from side to side between his lips. Touch was important to him, on his terms, and that did not mean touch from other people. His knives did not betray him or turn on him like people did. Whenever he was without his blades, he felt an inner agitation he had little control over.

Garrison made several trips from his office to the combination library and map room to research the project he was working on for G-2. It took him through the common room. He unobtrusively kept an eye on all his men. Chief was like a volcano about to erupt. It did not surprise him the young man had spent much of his time in solitary confinement. He did not work well with others, but in a different way than Wheeler. The psychological reports repeatedly pointed out the young man’s trust issues. Just because he had trust issues, did not mean they were not warranted. 

Returning a third time from the library with a book on military tactics, Garrison sat down at his desk with the book in front of him on his desk. Not opening it, he reached for his almost spent cigarette and took a last drag on it before stubbing the butt out in an ashtray that was heaped with similar butts. His eyes were on the cover of the book, but he made no move to open it. 

His mind was on his men. The threats of a return to prison for fighting were just that . . . threats. He wasn’t about to return any of them to prison at this early stage of the game. Well, maybe Wheeler, but Alcatraz probably wouldn’t take him back. No, with the volatile natures of Wheeler, Chief and Casino, there was bound to be a fight soon. 

It didn’t happen that night. The men sullenly went to their cots at the appointed times, with the usual grumbling about the handcuffs. Garrison really did not like to use them, but felt he could not do otherwise until they had proved he could trust them. 

Chief lay down on his cot and pulled the blanket over him. The others were doing the same, but with a lot of remarks to the guard who was applying the cuffs. The Indian noticed, that despite the grumblings, the men resignedly held their wrists out without a fight. This stunk. It was almost worse than stir. Almost, but not quite. A glare from obsidian eyes was the only response from Chief the guard received.

The next day started out as a replay of the last. One of the army screws tried to teach him German. Chief acted like he wasn’t interested, but did listen. He would practice the words from the little book he had been given . . . later, when nobody was around. He didn’t want to be laughed at.

To Chief’s surprise and joy, carefully shrouded in disinterest, he was allowed out in the afternoon for target practice. The Warden, as Garrison was coming to be known as, limited him to handguns only. Garrison wanted the rib to heal a little more before trying rifles and machine guns.

Chief took his place at the far end of the lineup. The men stood behind wooden tables with three different kinds of handguns laid out. There was an American revolver, a British semi-automatic pistol, and a German Luger. Chief was familiar with revolvers and semi-automatics, but he didn’t like the smaller guns. His favorites were rifles.

Garrison stepped away from his desk, shrugging one shoulder at a time to loosen tightened muscles in his back from sitting so long. Taking a needed break, he lit a cigarette and strolled out the front door to the top landing. 

Silently, he watched his men shoot at the paper targets. The daily reports showed slight improvement, but the men were by no means proficient. At least now their rounds were hitting the paper of the target. If any round hit a vital area on the black silhouette it was a lucky accident.

The best of the group so far were Casino and Actor. Casino may or may not have had experience with firearms. He wasn’t particularly comfortable with them, but that would come in time. Actor had probably been taught as a child, but in his line of business, firearms were rarely used. Wheeler had the same uninterested way of handling a gun as he had with others. He was listed as having been armed on some of the heists he had been on. Chief was able to hit the silhouette more often than the others. The Indian bore watching. 

Goniff was hopeless. Try as he might, the sergeant who was instructing them could not get the slight man to fire without shutting his eyes. Garrison had discussed the problem with the pickpocket.

“I don’t want to shoot nobody, Warden,” Goniff told him animatedly.

“And what if somebody wants to shoot you?” Craig has asked him.

The gamin grin crossed the Englishman’s face brightly. “I run. I always run. An’ I run fast, Warden. Never been caught.” That point was debatable as the man had spent time in English and American jails.

Garrison sighed and snubbed out his cigarette butt on the granite wall in front of him. He dropped the butt on the floor and went back inside.

The next morning a package arrived for the Lieutenant. He opened it to find bags labeled with some of the men’s names. Curious, he opened the one for Casino. There were several small black leather pick cases, and a set of keys. The odd thing was a stethoscope, but what the safecracker has said about the use of it made sense. The cloth bag was tied shut and put back in the box. Actor’s bag was opened next. It contained a leather case about the same size as Casino’s. Garrison opened it and looked inside to find an assortment of mustaches and a hairy piece that might pass for a VanDyke beard. A tube of spirit gum and a vial of remover rested in the bottom of the bag. Garrison closed that bag up too. Chief’s bag held a half dozen black handled switchblades with six inch blades. Satisfied nobody was close by, Garrison took one out and hefted it. Nice weight. He flicked it open without hesitation. Clean snap. The balance was a perfect as Garrison had ever felt. Craig closed it and removed a second shiv. The Indian did not know how many had been procured. The two blades were locked in the bottom of the left hand desk drawer, beneath the files. In the bottom of Chief’s bag was a whetstone and small can of oil. Garrison closed the bag, but left it on his desk as he locked the other two bags in his lower right drawer, next to the bottle of bourbon.

Craig carried the bag upstairs. The Indian was more comfortable taking his lessons in the common room he shared with the others. It was more open than the library. He found the other sergeant trying to teach the young man German phrases. 

“Sergeant, why don’t you take a break for a minute,” suggested Garrison.

“Yes, Sir.” 

The dark-haired tri-lingual soldier closed the book in front of him and left the room. The guard remained by the door. Garrison approached the wary-eyed Indian and set the bag on the table.  
“Take a look and tell me if they are what you want.”

Chief looked warily at the bag and reached a hand out to slide it closer. Cautiously, he opened the bag and looked inside. Relief flooded through him before he could even remove the first knife. He hefted it in his hand, testing the weight, before sliding the safety button down so he could release the blade. The snick was familiarly welcome. The balance was . . . Perfect! With the first smile since he had arrived, Chief stroked the blade down his cheek and chin, like a lover’s hand.

Garrison watched with no sign of surprise or emotion. Apparently the prison psychologist’s assessment was right. This was a little overly fond of the weapon. 

“Good enough?” asked Craig.

“Yeah,” said Chief, pulling back into himself. “It’ll do.”

“What do you need for practicing?”

Chief rose and turned his back to the Lieutenant. In a sudden, swift movement, the blade left his hand in an underhand throw and embedded in the thin circle around the bulls eye of the dart board. “Need practice,” he said.

“Preferably not the dart board or inside the house,” said Garrison wryly. “I can set you up outside with a target for a half hour a day.”

“Don’t need a target,” said the Indian. “Just a block of wood.”

Chief walked over to the board and pulled the knife free. He closed it and started to stick it in his pants pocket as he turned.

“No,” said Garrison. “It goes back in the bag and I will lock it up.”

“I need my blade,” barked the Indian sharply.

“No, you don’t,” said Craig evenly. “You haven’t had one for months now. You’ll survive. And you’ll get to keep it on you when we go on the mission.”

Chief thought about burying that nice sharp blade into the Lieutenant’s chest, but a rifle pointed at him from the door changed his mind. Slowly, he pulled the knife from his pocket and walked back to slip it back into the bag. His eyes did not leave the officer. He had to admit, Garrison was cool and seemingly unconcerned. In disgust, Chief shoved the bag across the table to the Lieutenant.

Garrison picked it up. “We’ll work some time in for you to practice this afternoon. I’ll send the Sergeant in so you can practice more on you language skills.” 

With that, he turned and walked away. As he trotted down the stairs, he shook his head. Nobody, least of all himself, had said this was going to be easy.


End file.
